para @gguerber
Mientras mi
esposa duerme junto a mí, cuando han acabado las guerras,
Y mi cabeza sobre
una almohada hace tiempo que descansa en el hogar, y la medianoche vacía sucede,/
Y en la
quietud, a través de la oscuridad, oigo, apenas oigo, respirar al niño;
Allí en mi
habitación, en el desvelado sueño una visión me oprime;
El irreal combate
comienza en la fantasía,
Empiezan los
escaramuzas. Se arrastran, avanzan
cautamente. Oigo disparos intermitentes,
Oigo
diversos disparos, el zumbido corto fiú! fiú! de las balas del rifle,
Veo explotar
las granadas, que dejan una pequeña nube blanca, oigo el quejido del mortero
al pasar,/
La ráfaga de
metralla castiga como un viento atravesando el bosque,
(ahora la
batalla arrecia, tumultuosa);
Una y otra
vez todas las escenas y poses en las baterías se me presentan en detalle,
El estruendo
y el humo, los hombres orgullosos junto a sus piezas,
El jefe de
artilleros escoge la mecha apropiada, prepara y apunta,
Después del
disparo lo veo hacerse a un lado, ansioso por ver sus efectos;
Desde algún
lugar me llega el grito de un regimiento cargando. (Esta vez el joven coronel
los encabeza
blandiendo la espada),
Veo los
claros abiertos por las descargas enemigas (que son cubiertos sin demora),
Respiro el
humo sofocante, después una espesa neblina
oculta todo;/
Ahora una
extraña pausa, por unos segundos ningún bando dispara;
Después
reinicia el caos, más confuso que nunca, con oficiales ansiosos que
vociferan
ordenes,/
Mientras
desde la lejanía el viento trae aplausos y ovaciones, (algún suceso especial),
Y siempre el
sonido de los cañones cerca o lejos, (que aún en sueños provoca una diabólica
exaltación y despierta mi vieja y demente alegría),
Y siempre el
apuro de la infantería con la escuadra cambiando de posición; la caballería
se mueve de
acá para allá,/
(Los que
caen y mueren no son objeto de mi atención, ni los heridos bañados en sangre, algunos
cojean hasta la retaguardia);/
Cenizas, desconcierto;
la temeridad de los edecanes que pasan al trote o galopando
Entre
detonaciones de armas cortas y la advertencia que lleva el ssst de los rifles
(es lo que
en mi visión escucho y veo),
Obuses que revientan
en el aire, y por las noches son cohetes multicolores.
While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the
breath of my infant,
There in the room as I wake from sleep this vision presses upon me;
The engagement opens there and then in fantasy unreal,
The skirmishers begin, they crawl cautiously ahead, I hear the
irregular snap! snap!
I hear the sounds of the different missiles, the short t-h-t! t-h-t!
of the rifle-balls,
I see the shells exploding leaving small white clouds, I hear the
great shells shrieking as they pass,
The grape like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees,
(tumultuous now the contest rages,)
All the scenes at the batteries rise in detail before me again,
The crashing and smoking, the pride of the men in their pieces,
The chief-gunner ranges and sights his piece and selects a fuse of
the right time,
After firing I see him lean aside and look eagerly off to note the effect;
Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging, (the young colonel
leads himself this time with brandish'd sword,)
I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, (quickly fill'd up, no delay,)
I breathe the suffocating smoke, then the flat clouds hover low
concealing all;
Now a strange lull for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either side,
Then resumed the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls and
orders of officers,
While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears
a shout of applause, (some special success,)
And ever the sound of the cannon far or near, (rousing even in
dreams a devilish exultation and all the old mad joy in the
depths of my soul,)
And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions, batteries,
cavalry, moving hither and thither,
(The falling, dying, I heed not, the wounded dripping and red
heed not, some to the rear are hobbling,)
Grime, heat, rush, aide-de-camps galloping by or on a full run,
With the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the rifles,
(these in my vision I hear or see,)
And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-color'd rockets.
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the
breath of my infant,
There in the room as I wake from sleep this vision presses upon me;
The engagement opens there and then in fantasy unreal,
The skirmishers begin, they crawl cautiously ahead, I hear the
irregular snap! snap!
I hear the sounds of the different missiles, the short t-h-t! t-h-t!
of the rifle-balls,
I see the shells exploding leaving small white clouds, I hear the
great shells shrieking as they pass,
The grape like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees,
(tumultuous now the contest rages,)
All the scenes at the batteries rise in detail before me again,
The crashing and smoking, the pride of the men in their pieces,
The chief-gunner ranges and sights his piece and selects a fuse of
the right time,
After firing I see him lean aside and look eagerly off to note the effect;
Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging, (the young colonel
leads himself this time with brandish'd sword,)
I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, (quickly fill'd up, no delay,)
I breathe the suffocating smoke, then the flat clouds hover low
concealing all;
Now a strange lull for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either side,
Then resumed the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls and
orders of officers,
While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears
a shout of applause, (some special success,)
And ever the sound of the cannon far or near, (rousing even in
dreams a devilish exultation and all the old mad joy in the
depths of my soul,)
And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions, batteries,
cavalry, moving hither and thither,
(The falling, dying, I heed not, the wounded dripping and red
heed not, some to the rear are hobbling,)
Grime, heat, rush, aide-de-camps galloping by or on a full run,
With the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the rifles,
(these in my vision I hear or see,)
And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-color'd rockets.
